


Dies Irae

by dimeliora



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, First Time, Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-22
Updated: 2012-11-22
Packaged: 2017-11-29 11:47:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/686626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dimeliora/pseuds/dimeliora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in Seasons 5 and 6. Starts in Sam's POV as he approaches his decision regarding Lucifer, and then Dean's POV while he's gone and after he comes back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dies Irae

“For now before the Judge severe/ all hidden things must plain appear;/ no crime can pass unpunished here./ O what shall I, so guilty plead?/ and who for me will intercede?/ when even Saints shall comfort need?”  
  
  
  
\------  
  
  
  
  
It’s been with him forever if he thinks about it hard enough. It would be easier to say it started when Dean tearfully admitted to him that dad wanted his brother to put him down if he crossed the wrong line. That horrible black moment the simple catalyst that led to Sam finally understanding the depths of his own depravity, the black and deep void that has always been inside of him exposed by his father’s dying command.  
  
When he was a child he put it off as normal, and then as he got older he psychoanalyzed it as a simple case of Stockholm Syndrome. He was trapped there all the time, locked into a small space with Dean and no one else for hours on end and forced to place his entire life into his brother’s hands. Sometimes when he felt less in the way of bitterness towards his family he used hormones instead of mental illness, but none of it ever really explained away the dark longing he’d have when he watched Dean moving, talking, flirting.  
  
So Sam prayed, prayed the way Pastor Jim secretly taught him too in the hopes that at least Sam would be saved from the hateful rejection of God that the other Winchesters suffered from. He would wait until Dean was in the shower, or out at a bar, or fast asleep, and then Sam would slip to his knees and pray in a cobbled collection of Psalms Pastor Jim taught him and Latin prayers he formulated himself. It served two purposes, calming his turbulent emotions and making him more fluent in the dead language than either his father or brother could ever hope to be. It was one of the only skills John Winchester ever openly praised that Sam had.  
  
But prayer will only take a young man so far, and so Sam was forced to find his own way to make sure that nothing ever got out, that Dean’s ever-watchful eye never saw deep enough to understand what he was carrying along behind him. It was important, hell more than important, it was fucking vital that Sam get out of the car and away from his brother before all that was left of Dean’s hope in humanity was shattered. Sam knew how much faith his brother placed in him, knew what kind of pedestal Dean put him on, and he couldn’t break it the way he wanted to. So he shattered Dean’s belief in him a different way, and that had worked well enough until his brother came to Palo Alto and took Sam back into the fold. Until Dean dragged him once again from the fire, carried him out of the smoke and ashes of his second life into cool air and a seemingly endless lifetime of bad luck.  
  
Sam couldn’t remember the first time Dean saved his life, but he imagined the wordless wailing his brother must have been subjected to was comparable to the sound of him screaming for Jess, or the hideous silence he fell into directly after he was packed back into the too small front seat of the Impala and driven away from everything he’d come to know. From the sanctuary of no longer being dirty, no longer being the freak, and hadn’t that just worked out so fucking well.  
  
Finding out it was all a lie, that the one good thing Sam had taken for himself was actually given to him by Azazel had been almost a step too much, and the look of sympathy Dean had given him afterwards had made Sam want to lash out, strike at his brother’s handsome face until there was nothing left.  
  
 _“Maybe the only difference between you and a demon is your Hell is right here.”_ And wasn’t Brady so right? There’s no dancing around it now though, no more going back, and while Dean is shifting back and forth between that completely out of character despair and the desperate attempts to get all the rings they need Sam is left with a lot of time to think, to consider, but most of all to not pray. Not this time. He knows now that God is not on their side, that they’re left to do this all alone, but mostly he knows that Heaven is just another thing that’s let him down.  
  
 **No** , no that’s not right. Sam let Sam down this time, by putting that goddamn look on Dean’s face. By making it so that Dean’s hand moved seamlessly, fluidly out to the trashcan that held the amulet Sam gave him. The amulet Dean has worn for all these long years despite every fight and rift Sam has created between them. Sam can’t even explain to him that his Heaven was simply moments when he was released from the hideous pressure of _wanting_ , of needing something so fundamentally wrong it should never have even been on his menu. Gone is the man who said he had a GED and a “Give ‘Em Hell” attitude, gone is the man who used to look evil in the eye and laugh, and in his place is a stranger that Sam cannot recognize. A stranger that Sam has created.  
  
His father was right, and Dean chose the wrong order to ignore. After years of begging and pleading with Dean to rebel just once now Sam wishes his brother had towed the line one last time. If Sam was dead, if Dean had just left him dead after Jake and Cold Oaks, if he had carried Sam’s body out and put it on a pyre like their father’s, then none of this would have happened. No righteous Dean spilling blood in Hell, no killing of Lilith, no Apocalypse. That may be vain, a simple and foolish belief ignoring the many other ways it all could have played out, but Sam doubts it. Since before he was born it’s been his destiny to be evil. His destiny to be the villain to Dean’s hero. The only one who can’t see it now is Dean himself. No matter how angry his brother is, no matter how much he wants to walk away from Sam, he refuses to see where it all could have been fixed.  
  
Sam’s too weak, always has been and always will be, and Dean’s faith in him has been unwarranted since the start. Dean is only just beginning to see this, and Sam’s secretly glad for it. Glad because Dean’s been pulling away, and as much as that hurts it makes the rest of it easy. Easier than he ever thought it would be. Dean is going to do something stupid, Sam just knows it, and there’s no telling whether the next death will be his brother’s last. Despite all of that Sam thinks, is almost sure, that he sees a light at the end of the tunnel for his brother. If he can walk away from this untouched, if he can go to Lisa and Ben then Dean can have the life Sam so desperately wanted. The life he thinks his brother always secretly envied.  
  
Dean is gone now, and Sam’s not sure where, but he’s had time to kneel now. To pray, even though it no longer fills him with a sense of structure and hope it gives him calm in a way he thought it never would again. Fuck God if he’s not listening, it’s not really him he’s praying to this time.  
  
He starts, as always in English, thoughts jumping rapidly from place to place as he remembers those that have died and those that still live. When it comes time to ask forgiveness though Sam stutters, struggles with which of his many sins he should start with. This isn’t the cobbled version of his childhood, this is a set thing and Sam knows it by heart. It was his favorite as a child, found in the back of one of Pastor Jim’s theological tomes, handwritten in that neat way the man had and underlined in so many places it may as well have all been emphasized.  
  
“Dies irae, dies illa,solvet saeculum in favilla,teste David cum Sibylla.” He doesn’t realize he’s going to do it aloud until the sound of his own voice makes him jump a little. It’s a long one, and very intensive, but he’s fairly certain he has time before Dean comes back. The last thing Sam needs is to remind Dean of this habit of his, one Dean never would have approved of before and would only enrage him now. He puts his forehead back against his hands and thinks hard about just how he wants to ask Dean to forgive him.  
  
The words practically trip off his tongue, the plea for absolution, the understanding of the imminent end, and it would be ironic if it weren’t so fucking sad. No matter what Sam decides the end is coming, and there will be no stopping it this time. No more Hail Marys, no more random luck, and no more resurrections in planes. Simply Sam and Dean Winchester standing at the brink as the world they knew crumbles around them.  
  
It’s his desire though that he wants Dean to forgive. His brother’s love is pure, fraternal, and God so unfounded that Sam has never been able to properly thank him for it. Sam’s own feelings are wrapped up in everything he’s ever tried to ignore about himself. That longing, hidden so deep inside him that no one has ever been able to really pry it out, rage and hatred mixed in with the need, the urgent fucking need, to know Dean in ways he was never meant to know his own flesh and blood. If Dean knew that last little thread between them would be cut, and Sam would finally be free to float off into the damnation he always so rightfully deserved.  
  
“Quid sum miser tunc dicturus? Quem patronum rogaturus? Cum vix iustus sit securus.” He feels the strong hand touch his shoulder and jumps once, but the hand travels up to the back of his head and holds him there facing his own fingers before Dean finally breaks the heavy silence.  
  
“Finish it.”  
  
Two words, but they hold a universe of meaning that Sam can’t even begin to fathom. Dean is gripping the back of his skull, not tightly, not painfully, but firmly enough the Sam knows if he tries to buck that hand there will be a struggle. He doesn’t try though, because apparently Dean is as eager to hide his expression as Sam is to avoid seeing it.  
  
“Luste iudex ultionis, donum fac remissionis, ante diem rationis” The fingers travel down, kneading the soft curls at the base of his neck as he grips his fingers tighter and tighter until all the blood has left them and he’s only got the vaguest tingles in each digit. Hands that have hurt so many, hands that have spilled so much blood, and hands that once belonged to someone and now only serve as a reminder of how fucked up things can get when push comes to shove.  
  
His voice is breaking, the prayer forcing its way past his lips and onwards to Dean’s ears in a way that he never meant for it to. He wants to stand then, to push away from Dean and force his brother out. To break that last fucking thread so that he can finally be free of the smothering weight of his brother’s love, to finally not be the only one trapped by desire and longing. How much of it can Dean translate? How much of its meaning can he understand? Sam doesn’t know and he’s afraid to ask.  
  
“Preces meae non sunt dignae: sed tu bonus fac benigne, ne perenni cremer igne.” His voice cracks on the last sentence. Fires of endless woe indeed. Dean has braved Hell already for Sam, and it’s only fitting that Sam should do the same for Dean. There will be no Castiel to save him, but that’s for the best. Sam doesn’t really want to be saved anymore.  
  
“Lacrimosa dies illa, qua resurget ex favilla. Judicandus homo reus: huic ergo parce Deus.” He stops before the last line, unable or unwilling to go on he’s not sure. There’s no reason to ask for blessing, for light and mercy, because it’s Dean that this is meant for and not God. Sam’s long since stopped asking Dean for mercy. Instead he bows his head further, teeth digging into his bloodless fingers so he won’t scream at Dean to stop touching him, to stop asking him for something he can no longer give.  
  
Dean doesn’t speak for a long time, just stays there with the steady pressure on the back of Sam’s neck, and then finally when he breaks the silence again it’s with a flat and even tone that Sam can’t interpret. “Why that one Sammy?”  
  
Sam sucks in one harsh breath, and then he’s moving before he can stop himself, his knees cracking like little gunshots as he pops up and away from Dean, hitting at his brother’s hand when he reaches out. He stands with his back to the wall, his fingers fluttering helplessly as he watches Dean’s own hands clench and unclench. He can’t meet the green eyes, can’t see the expression, because he knows he’ll find disappointment the way he always does these days.  
  
“Because I’m-fuck you Dean. Fuck you. I am fatally flawed, intrinsically broken in a way that is unexplainable. Because you knew it and you should have walked away a long fucking time ago.” It’s not really anger he wants here, but it’s the only thing he can offer. The only thing he has left to keep him standing, to keep him from kneeling before Dean and admitting everything, baring what’s left of his soul and hoping Dean will finally save himself and turn away.  
  
He hears a throat clearing, hears Dean pop his neck, and then the bathroom door opens and closes without another word. It’s enough for Sam, a punctuation on the conversation that says everything without having to say anything at all. Sam hovers in the doorway for a long time, unsure if he should stay and finish the fight or run now while he still has a chance of talking to Dean again. Like always, he caves, stands and waits until Dean has come back into the room. Tomorrow Sam will go to stop the zombie apocalypse and Dean will go to kill Death. Fuck it sounds crazier in his head than even he imagined.  
  
When the bathroom door opens he meets Dean’s eyes, sees the second of surprise swept away by something burning and liquid that Dean hides by lowering his gaze to the clothes in his duffel. “What do you want me to say Sam? Want me to agree? Tell yah you’re so fucked up you deserve to spend eternity in Hell? Well it ain’t happening.”  
  
And really, that’s the last fucking straw, because Dean is right. So right it hurts. If he would reject Sam, if he’d denigrate him like the voicemail the night Sam killed Lilith then choosing to accept Lucifer and jump into the Cage would be a piece of cake. Sam looks at him, watches the muscles cording and bunching in his arms, abs flexing as he twists slightly to dig deeper into the bag, and then Sam crosses the room and grabs one of his brother’s strong blunt hands. There’s silence, Dean lifts one eyebrow to suggest he’s not sure what Sam’s playing at but the time for games is over, and then Sam lowers the hand and places it against his groin.  
  
There’s no way for Dean to mistake his intention, no way for Dean to be confused about what Sam’s showing him, because the only stimulus in the room is Dean and Sam’s rock hard under his touch and aching. For what feels like an eternity neither of them move, and then Dean is exploding, backing away wildly with his eyes wide and his hands up in the air as if Sam is coming at him with a weapon. In a way Sam guesses he is.  
  
“What the fuck Sam! What are you thinking?”  
  
Sam watches the way those eyes widen, the mixture of shock and confusion on that beloved and hateful face, and he holds himself in so tightly there’s no way he could leave now even if he wanted to. Movement will be the death of what little control he has.  
  
“I was thinking you should finally understand. I was thinking it was time for you to know why I left all those times, why I was so eager to be away from you, and why I deserve what’s coming. You want so badly to believe I’m little Sam that you shot fireworks with, but even then there was a hint of it there poisoning me. Dad was right Dean. Dad was so fucking right.” He pulls back when Dean steps forward, feet stumbling over each other in a way they haven’t in years and hands groping for the wall behind him. He doesn’t get a chance to grab it because Dean has his shoulder and is holding him firmly in place.  
  
“Shut up Sam. Shut the fuck up. We’ve talked about this and-“  
  
Sam shakes his head wildly, hands pushing at Dean’s and then balling into fists in a warning his brother ignores. “We’ve never talked about this. Never. I want you Dean. Not like a brother and it’s been you all these years pushing that line about how wrong it was, getting so fucking disgusted when anyone dared to-fuck I have to go.” He pushed once but Dean is unyielding as always, too hard and firm to be swayed.  
  
Sam’s getting desperate, angry, unsure of what Dean’s reaction is, what his intentions are regarding Sam’s confession, so when Dean’s lips descend on his Sam strikes out blindly his fist connecting with his brother’s side and sending Dean’s teeth reflexively into his own lip. Sam tastes the burst of blood and then he’s pulling back from Dean, eyes narrowed and that old familiar rush of temper so heavy at the forefront of his mind that the pulsing arousal is suddenly remarkably easy to ignore. He wiped at the blood on his chin and then turned, ignoring Dean calling his name in favor of crossing the threshold and heading out into the rusty scrap yard he’d known since he was a child.  
  
He was halfway through one of the oldest parts when the force hit him low in the spine and all the breath left his lungs. He hit the ground face first and then Dean was rolling him over and landing a blow to his jaw, another to his side, and Sam relished the pain because this had been a long time coming. He was barely able to concentrate when Dean started talking, punctuating each sentence with a punch.  
  
“Think that’s fair Sammy? Fuck your self-esteem issue little brother. Fucking beat yourself up enough you shouldn’t need me to do it too. _I sold my fucking soul for you, so you don’t get to die on me now._ ”  
  
Sam just let him, and then Dean wasn’t hitting anymore he was slumped over him, straddling his thighs and face pressed against Sam’s neck, and Sam felt the wet heat against his flesh. Dean was crying, and all of his anger bled into something else as he reached up and touched Dean’s shoulder hesitantly.  
  
“You can’t-you can’t fucking leave me like that Sam. Can’t die. Can’t go to Hell. _Promise me._ ”  
  
Sam simply laid there, one hand on Dean’s shoulder and his eyes focused on the overcast night above him. He wished there were stars, the way there had been so many nights when the two of them stretched out on the Impala’s hood and looked up at the night sky. Wished he could see at least the cool light of the moon up there, but all he saw was darkness.  
  
“How long?” Dean's voice was a pained cry, a choked off scream, and Sam hated to hear it.  
  
“Seems like my whole life.” He felt Dean shudder once, hands gripping reflexively, and he simply waited for the beating to continue. Dean, ironically enough, chose talking instead.  
  
“Why?”  
  
 _Because the sky is up and Hell is down._ “Because I had no other choice. Because once I realized I did I couldn’t stop. Pick a reason Dean. They all fit.”  
  
There was silence between them, although the wind blew through broken car windows and the trees in the distance rustled softly, the two of them seemed to be shrouded in silence. Then Dean was up, off him, and offering a hand without looking his way. Sam didn’t take it, simply laid there and waited for Dean to walk away. He knew the truth now. There was nothing left to say.  
  
“Get up Sam. We’ll talk about this once the world is saved.”  
  
Which wasn’t good enough, but it was the best brush-off Sam was going to get.  
  
 _My heart like ashes, crushed and dry, assist me when I die._ He watched Dean’s back retreat, soaked up the sight, and wondered if Dean would forgive him when he was in the Cage. If he would ever forgive himself.  
  
  
\------  
  
That fight, those last moments before the descent, are the ones Sam will take with him to the grave. The ever-present anger that Dean is standing there, willing to die just so Sam doesn’t feel alone, is all-consuming. It takes Sam several minutes to figure out that this is only helping Lucifer. That all of that anger Sam considered strength is fuel for the fallen angel’s control. So when the sun glints, when he sees the little green soldier, that’s the end of his anger. It all leaves him, so fast it’s like it was never there at all. He should feel hollow, he’s lost his primary emotion after all, but all that’s left is love for Dean.  
  
He wonders if this is the way his brother felt about him. If this is how love was always supposed to be all these years. Sam Winchester, always praised for being so goddamn smart, is finally learning how to fully love someone seconds before he commits himself to Hellfire. How Gabriel would fucking laugh at this. He releases Dean, throws the rings, promises it will be alright. He wishes Dean’s last look to him wouldn’t be one of pain and anguish, wishes that Dean’s face wasn’t destroyed, because he’d like to see that cocky grin one last time. The one that always makes him love his brother and want to punch him at the same time.  
  
  
He has the memory though, and he’ll hold onto it, use it like a belt between the teeth to control the pain he knows is coming. Hold onto it for eternity.  
  


 

 

* * *

 

  
  
  
  
They never talked. The one fucking time he promised his brother conversation, and what he got instead was that pithy fucking goodbye and the sight of Sam diving headfirst into Hell like it was the public pool in summertime. So Dean kept the promises that he could, went to Lisa and Ben, stayed with them as much as he was able, and tried to find some way to function fully instead of haunting the two civilians.  
  
He looked up the prayer he’d heard Sam saying that last night before Death and the final ring. Before the final fight. “Day of Wrath”. Sam, girl that he was, had always had a flair for the fucking dramatic. Maybe Dean cried the first time when he read it, maybe he threw up, it was hard to remember because by the time he finished translating it he was so blind stupid drunk there wasn’t much left in the way of functioning brain cells.  
  
In the end he knew none of it would work, long before Sam showed up subtly changed and wholly broken. But before then, before then Dean had all the time in the world to think while his home, _his history_ , sat in the garage under a tarp and his family rotted in Hell without him. He’d kissed Sam that night, a weird act of aggression in response to Sam showing Dean what it was that was itching his brother’s goddamn skin all the time.  
  
When he’d done it Dean wasn’t even sure what the purpose was, if he was trying to comfort Sam after that horrible admission or hurt him. At the time he wasn’t even sure how he felt about it. The first two months of Sam being gone Dean thought it was an attack, a big fuck you to Sam for making his abandonment and betrayal Dean’s fault. For making everything Dean’s fault. Honestly he’d given the kid everything he possibly could, so what the fuck did Sam have left to complain about? Not having his big brother molest him apparently.  
  
The third and fourth months he thought it was an act of desperation. Trying to shut Sam up, to wipe the words he was hearing out of Sam’s mouth, because really? Sam? Only one of them could be that fucked up at once and if it was going to be anybody it should have been fucking Dean. After the faith healer, _after dad_ , it was really supposed to be Dean that was dead. If he had been then he never would have had to try to outlive Sam, never have gone to Hell, never have started the goddamn Apocalypse. He was never meant to outlive his brother, never meant to be left here with no Sam to protect. What was the fucking point?  
  
He filled it with barbeques, with a respectable job, with caring for Ben and Lisa when he wasn’t so fucking twisted up he couldn’t see straight. Some nights he would slip outside to the garage and pull the tarp up, lay his head against the cold metal and simply curse Sam for being Sam. For letting Dean get a glimpse of the self-loathing he should have spotted years before, and then trying to hide it with that brittle and cheerful look. A happy lamb going to the fucking slaughter. That was what he’d done, and logic be damned, Dean had let Sam be sacrificed for the world. Let Sam jump into an eternity of suffering just so-  
  
Lisa had stared in silent horror at the mangled remains of his knuckles, but she never asked when she bandaged them. It was a week before he let her touch him again, couldn’t stand the thought of being handled gently while Sam was locked down there. Which was when the research began.  
  
Months five through seven saw Dean functioning better than any before, and he believed the kiss had been an attempt to say goodbye. He’d seen Sam slipping further out of his grasp than he ever had before, certainly further than he thought was possible. Beyond even lying about the demon blood, beyond that one horrifying glimpse of Sam with black eyes, and that was what he’d reacted to. Seeing Sam asking him to cross the one line they never crossed. Dean searched fruitlessly, tirelessly for one option to be offered. Something to bring back Sam so that he could explain himself. Explain why Sam was confused, hurting, and Dean should have seen it but now that he knew he could fix it. Fix Sam’s head.  
  
It wasn’t that it never occurred to Dean, after all he’d once been a hormonal mess and locked in a room with Sam on a regular basis. Still all of that had faded away years ago. He wasn’t haunted by images of Sam’s freakishly large, almost delicate hands or the shine of those hazel eyes, or- _well fuck._ At some point, on the border of month eight he realized maybe Sam hadn’t been so far off the mark. For one terrible month he wonders if the kiss was some part of Dean recognizing what his brother wanted and wanting it back. Wanting to close that last gap so that Sam would never leave him again. So there’d be no more of this hateful fucking distance between the two of them.  
  
His love for Sam had never been healthy, had always been self-destructive and overwhelming, but maybe it had been just as twisted. For month nine Dean reads the prayer over and over again, and it occurs to him that maybe he’s praying now as well. Praying to Sam or to God or to somebody to help him understand what’s happening. What’s changing inside of him. He’s given up the search, can’t bring Sam back, can’t even get fucking Castiel to answer him anymore. That’s it. He has to let it go.  
  
But the dreams start up in the tenth month, and Dean finds he’s not sure if he prefers the nightmares of Sam’s suffering or the dreams of Sam writhing underneath him in a completely different way. No matter which it is he wakes often, sweaty and unsure with Lisa beside him sometimes awake and soothing him, sometimes murmuring in her own sleep. He doesn’t have to worry about the guilt, he’s felt that for so long it’s a relief for it to come back. So when Sam arrives on his doorstep to save him from the Djinn poison he’s not sure if this is an extension of his nightmares or something else.  
  
Until he realizes the depth of Sam’s change, and then Dean finally has his answer. At first he thought they didn’t talk about it because Sam didn’t want to. Maybe Hell burned the want out of him the way Dean sometimes found after he came back that the lightest touch of skin to his made him sicker than he’d ever been. They fell into a pattern with one another, at first comfortable, and then as Sam began to expose his soullessness awkward and tight.  
  
Dean can’t stand to look at him sometimes, to be in the same room as him, because now that he has an inkling of what he wants from Sam he can’t have it. Can’t even approach it because the things he loved about his stupid little brother are locked downstairs in the Cage with Lucifer and Michael. Completely out of his reach.  
  
 _“If you wanted to kill your brother, you should have done it outright.”_ And oh God Castiel’s right, but fuck it’s Sam. Sam of the long legs and the seemingly endless empathy, Sam whose elbows suggest vulnerability while the rest of him screams death and destruction. Sam of the small mole, the sharp jaw, the bitchy face and the constant questioning. It’s selfish, but Dean hasn’t had many occasions in his life to be selfish and he’d prefer Sam all the way dead to this walking mockery of what was once his annoying little brother.  
  
Plus, even if there’s just a few moments between when Sam is himself again and when the Wall comes crashing down and leaves Sam useless and vegetative, Dean is going to use that time wisely. Use it to tell Sam what he really thinks, what he feels, how much he loves and hates him for all that he has and hasn’t done. How Dean is nothing without him.  
  
It’s hideous and true, a thing Dean has known for certain since the first time Sam died in his arms. He didn’t sell his soul because he wanted to; he did it from a lack of options. Maybe it’s their upbringing, or some fundamental flaw in Dean’s character, but there is no Dean Winchester without Sam. He is unable or unwilling to consider it any differently, to see a world without Sam one worth living in. If nothing else could prove it the time he spent with Ben and Lisa has only cemented his belief. He loved her, in his own way he guessed, and being Ben’s dad was certainly interesting, but…  
  
This is **Sam**. Skinned knees and snotty noses aside Sam has been the same little adult for almost his entire life. There was a period there where he was a pain in the ass constantly, but Dean had been prepared for that. Had known that even Sam couldn’t avoid the terrible side effects of becoming a teenager. Maybe he hoped his little brother would cope better, but all in all Sam had done ok. Dean had never shot him after all. Even if there were times he came close. Too serious, sad-eyed Sam. Always willing to look the other way when Dean did something that was too painful to make jokes about, overly sensitive to every sad story they ever came across, ready to go above and beyond if it meant doing the right thing. Sam.  
  
Sure there was the demon blood, the thing with Ruby, and fuck that still makes him so angry he can barely see straight, but it’s Sam. There isn’t a way to explain it beyond repeating his brother’s name like he’s the fucking Rain Man so honestly he doesn’t even try. He can wrap it all up into that little package. The thought that Sam spent all those years pushing at him, running and hiding, because he thought Dean wouldn’t even try to understand what was going on in that overactive fucking brain of his is painful. It makes him angry and sad at the same time, and all he wants to do is grab Sam and shake him until his brother understands that no matter how mad Dean is nothing will make him walk away. Nothing will part them, not even death. They’ve proven that time and again.  
  
So in the end the only logical thing to do is give in, and say fuck it to any chance of normality. Sam tried and it didn’t work, Dean tried and it didn’t work, so why not try something new? He wants to say all of that, wants to explain to Sam that all he needs is to be with his brother again, and the format of that togetherness doesn’t really matter. Yet when Sam is returned to him Dean doesn’t say shit, swallows it all down because this still isn’t quite Sam.  
  
The stubbornness is there, the mulish expression Sam adopts when he thinks he knows better than Dean, and that happens a lot, but Sam is fragile now. His big buff brother is spun glass in his hands, capable of being shattered so easily that Dean fears for the smallest things to touch him. He keeps away while hovering, hands always too close without touching and eyes watching Sam’s every move. It reminds him so much of when Sam was a baby, a toddler, a tiny thing that needed Dean to stay with him always to protect him. It’s not that Dean’s ever stopped needing to protect Sam, just that Sam stopped really needing it for a long time. Now that instinct is backed by _need_ , and Dean is afraid to upset it.  
  
So when Sam starts digging, tapping at that goddamn Wall just like he was told not to Dean’s not sure if he can stand back and watch it. He’s already seen Sam destroy himself so many times, is he really required to watch it again? But Sam has to do it, has to keep going because he believes that this is his path to redemption. As if that was really necessary. They don’t talk about the night before Dean got the last ring, they don’t talk about the fight or the kiss or the admission, they don’t _talk_ , and that’s not right. Dean has to fight Sam to leave emotions alone, and now he’s watching Sam avoid them as if he was suddenly just like Dean.  
  
Honestly, Dean fucking hates it.  
  
Still there’s Sam, big dumb fucking Sam rushing into danger as if it will clear every imaginary stain he thinks is on his tattered soul, and Dean can’t watch it anymore. Can’t stand seeing Sam tear himself down for things he never did. Can’t stand back and let it happen. So when Sam hits the floor, when the seizing starts and Dean’s brain kicks into overdrive he holds back the urge to go out and smash things. He waits until Sam comes back and can look at Dean again, and then he keeps a grip on his brother’s shoulders while he orders words in his head.  
  
“Sam.”  
  
It’s all he can get out at first, and Sam’s eyes work hard to focus on him before he gives Dean a smile that makes him want to break Sam’s face apart. Fake, soft, understanding, as if Dean is the one that needs comfort, as if Dean was the one flopping on the floor like a dying fucking fish. “Hey. Sorry. I think I was remembering-“  
  
“ _Sam._ It stops now. No more fucking memories, no more fucking cases. You leave this shit alone you got me little brother?” He’s holding Sam’s shoulders too tight, fighting against the duel urges to hurt and to heal.  
  
Sam’s blinking up at him, the light obviously hurting his eyes, but the switch is too far away for Dean to reach without letting go, and he’s not sure he can take his hands off Sam at the moment. “Dean I have to-I gotta fix what I did. I need to-“  
  
Dean shakes him once hard and Sam groans, eyes unfocused for a moment and then coming back to take in Dean’s face. “Shut up you dumb shit. Listen to me. Listen. No more ok, because Sammy I can’t lose you. Are you listening to me? I can’t fucking-you can’t ask me to do this all over again. I just got you back you son of a bitch.”  
  
Sam’s face is sympathetic and it makes Dean’s rage go up two notches, spin crazily out of control as his hands shake on Sam’s shoulders. “I’m sorry Dean. I know it’s hard but-“  
  
Sam stops abruptly, lips full of Dean’s mouth, and he plunders his tongue in and tastes Sam, really tastes him for the first time. That last kiss was quick and aborted, but this one is long and Sam pushes feebly at his shoulders while he opens his mouth to accept Dean’s tongue.  
  
He slides his hands down, pushes at Sam’s jacket and finds that Sam is unable to help him much, so Dean does the work. He shoulders Sam’s weight the way he always has, twisting his brother’s body this way and that to remove the many layers until he has to pull back to lift Sam’s last shirt, lifts his own to shorten the time they’re separated and then dives back in.  
  
It’s a brutal kiss, unlike any he shared with Lisa or Cassie, and he tastes every inch of Sam while his fingers work on the buckle of Sam’s belt. He’s never done this before, not the homosexual part or the incest part, but he’s got the basics down and he can make it work. So he claims Sam’s mouth, then lowers his lips to Sam’s neck and bites hard while he pulls the belt out. Sam moans his name, feebly working at Dean’s belt while broken sounds fall from his mouth above Dean’s face. It’s enough to let the screaming alarms in his head outweigh his urge to break Sam into his component parts and rebuild him stronger and more stable.  
  
He pulls back, bites marks on Sam’s neck pronounced against the tan flesh, and undoes Sam’s fly before kneeling to unlace his brother’s boots and slide them off. Sam’s feet have always been fragile compared to the rest of him, and Dean’s overwhelmed with the urge to place a kiss on one bony ankle as the sock reveals it. The noise Sam makes is overwhelming, and all the blood in his head rushes to his cock as he pulls the other sock and then slides Sam’s pants and boxers off.  
  
His brother is exposed before him, naked and trembling, peppered with scars Dean doesn’t know the stories for from his time without a soul, and Dean licks up one even as his hands start kneading muscled thighs. Sam is talking, saying something, but Dean can only hear his own heartbeat and the voice in his head screaming at him to stop and go in equal measures. He has to shake his head to hear Sam, fight to get past all the intervening noises.  
  
“-what you really want?”  
  
Oh. _Oh._ Dean grabs Sam’s flushed and hard cock and licks it once, listens to the gasp as he watches the way Sam’s back arches, and then he nods. Nothing he could say right now would come out right, nothing would make sense, and for some reason the only thing Dean can think of is that stupid fucking prayer. He remembers Pastor Jim for one really awkward second, call and response sermon format, and he knows exactly how to tell Sam everything he feels. To give Sam what he’s been looking for all this time.  
  
Dean stands and slides what clothes he has left off, toeing off his boots while he watches the way Sam’s chest heaves and his brother’s long fingers clutch at the bed sheets nervously. He starts at the beginning.  
  
 _“Quid sum miser tunc dicturus?”_ Sam’s eyes snap to him, and then Dean takes his spot back between Sam’s thighs and sucks his index finger once before ghosting it across Sam’s opening. “Aio me paenitet.”  
  
Sam groans when Dean slides in to the first knuckle, the sound ripped from his throat, and all Dean can think is tight and hot. He has to fight to dig through long forgotten lessons regarding verb tenses and sentence structure. He knows it’s not perfect, that Sam could do better, but he’s a little fucking distracted right now.  
  
Sam gets it though, sees what Dean is trying to do, and there’s a harsh glitter in his eyes when he sucks in a deep breath as Dean’s finger moves forward and he gasps out, “I’m sorry.”  
  
 _“Quem patronum rogaturus?”_ He has the finger all the way in, can’t imagine how he’s going to get enough of them to make this work, because he’s a pretty well-endowed guy ego aside, but it has to. “Sepio iste.”  
  
Sam’s not crying, but he’s shaking as if he’s going to break apart and Dean’s finger finds the spot he’s heard about, rides it as Sam bucks against it, and then he’s spitting on his middle finger to start to work it in too. If he doesn’t hurry he’s afraid he’ll never get there.  
  
Conjugation, verb choice, the intricacies of the dead language flee him and Dean’s left with nothing but English as he leans forward and ghosts breath over Sam’s cock, ready to suck it down and distract Sam before that second finger breaches him. “I forgive you. You’re absolved Sammy so stop it.”  
  
He hears the gasp again, emotional instead of physical this time, and takes Sam in as much as he can before he shoves the middle finger in. Sam’s yielding and rejecting him at the same time, muscles milking his fingers as he moves them around, stretching and searching until _yahtzee_ , Sam is jumping underneath him again and both fingers are moving more easily.  
  
He uses his free hand to hold one of Sam’s hips down, his mouth working the shaft the way he’s always liked best, low suction heavy tongue. When he drags his teeth over the head Sam makes that broken noise again and then his big hands are clutching at Dean’s shoulders, one pulling him down and the other pushing him up as if Sam can’t get his directions straight.  
  
There’s a rush of heady power, a feeling of accomplishment and victory all wrapped up into one neat package and he pulls his fingers out, slicks them along the saliva covering Sam’s shaft and then slides three in. The sound Sam makes is pleasure and pain, but Dean’s too far in it now to stop even if he wanted to. Sam’s going to need a little pain, and Dean’s willing to deliver it this first time. Willing to forego any pretense of gentility or kindness. They’re in an abandoned house for fuck’s sake, the walls around them crumbly and heavy with a mildew scent that does strange things when mixed with the smell of Sam’s musk and the soap he uses so often.  
  
Let it be special the second time, this time Dean is going to exorcise his brother’s demons, beat the guilt out of him, and then when Sam is Sam again he’ll do this the way he wants. He’s still sucking, licking, sometimes brushing teeth against the crown and listening to Sam’s moans and cries the whole time. He hasn’t looked up in a while, eyes focused on his work, so when all three fingers are moving smoothly inside Sam he finally looks to see Sam staring at him intensely, hazel eyes wide and lust-blown. He lets Sam’s cock leave his mouth with a pop, and he crab walks his way up the bed before putting his own aching shaft to Sam’s mouth.  
  
If there’s supposed to be guilt here, a sense of wrongness or immorality, Dean can’t find it. All he knows is that Sam’s mouth has always been good at talking, and now it’s good at other things. Sam works him fast and brutal, it’s sloppy, but Dean knows Sam understands that this is the most he’s getting in the way of lubrication right now. It’s not like Dean’s been carrying a bottle of lube around this whole time, waiting for his chance to use it. _Next time._ It’s a mantra he uses in his head to hold his orgasm at bay as Sam’s cheeks hollow around him and saliva and pre-come drip down his balls.  
  
When he pulls away from Sam’s mouth he grips the base once, hard, and squeezes to take control back before nudging Sam’s shoulder.  
  
“On your knees, grab the headboard.” Sam takes the command literally, very literally, and suddenly his brother is in a mockery of the position for prayer. Hands clasped on the old wood, knees spread, and ass out where Dean can get to it. He swallows hard, slides behind Sam and traces fingers along the broad and trembling muscles of his back before he lines up his shot.  
  
Using pool metaphors may help him last longer, at least that’s the plan until he tries to breach Sam the first time and finds that the tight ring of muscle doesn’t want to yield to him anymore. He grabs Sam’s shoulders, rubs them, and then mouths against the shell of one ear, “Relax Sammy. Relax and let me help you.”  
  
It works a little Dean’s able to breach the first ring, and from there it’s work and he focuses on it. He’s sweating by the time he’s fully seated, teeth clenched down so hard his jaw is creaking and Sam’s holding the headboard and making sounds that should stop him, but Dean is too far gone to stop now. He waits, teeth still biting down, until Sam moves slightly, and then Dean grabs Sam’s half-wilted erection in one hand and the headboard with the other. His fingers brush against Sam’s clenched hands, and suddenly he’s moving in that tight heat, friction overwhelming as Sam pushes himself back and forward.  
  
Sam starts to babble in English this time, mouth moving without his brain engaged and Dean listens as closely as he can to the stammered apologies and confessions as he fucks into Sam long and hard and slides his fist up and down, flicking the wrist at the end, sometimes gripping the head and twisting a bit. He bites Sam’s shoulder once, sucking until there’s a mark, and the sight of it makes him want to leave more so he does. Sam keeps saying things, punctuating them with sorry, and Dean marks him for each confession.  
  
When he gets to the part about Ruby Dean pushes harder than he has before and listens to the cry Sam gives before he grips Sam’s hips and uses the leverage to increase the pace and push home. Sam’s close, he can tell from the trembling muscles around him and the way Sam’s words have become broken little things he can barely formulate. Dean rocks faster, fist pumping harder, and then puts his lips to Sam’s ear again. “I forgive you. I forgive you Sammy and you’re absolved. So let it go. Let me take it away.”  
  
Wonder of all wonders, the answer to a lifetime of rebellion was this. Sam obeys. His body shakes, he arches once and cries out Dean’s name while he spills into Dean’s hand, and then he slumps forward and Dean grabs his hips and fucks his way to completion. The orgasm isn’t anything stupidly flowery, it’s incredibly intense, but he doesn’t see Heaven or hear a choir of angels. Thank fuck for that. It takes a while to come down, breathing still harsh and hard and hands clenching and unclenching reflexively on Sam’s bruised hips. He hears Sam mutter something suspiciously like, “-move.” Isn’t sure if he should just comply, and then Sam’s doing it for him.  
  
If he expected fluttery lashes and outpourings of love and devotion he gets none of it. Sam walks stiffly into the bathroom, is gone for several minutes, and comes back out to grab up his discarded boxers and slide them back on. The silence is getting oppressive, concerning, and Dean refuses to face it without at least pants on. He doesn’t bother with the underwear, slides his jeans over his nakedness and winces at the rapidly cooling semen clinging to his skin. He should clean up, but Sam’s weird expression keeps him rooted to the spot. After a while his brother speaks, and Dean hears the undertone of danger and anger there.  
  
“What was that for?”  
  
Dean considers it a long time, knows instantly what Sam is hinting at. Did Dean just do that to please Sam, to distract him, to make him feel better? He could answer yes to all of them, he did and it’s truthful, but none of those were the driving factor here.  
  
“I wanted to.” He sees the way Sam sweeps him once, judges and evaluates the words before all the tension goes out of his shoulders and he’s leaning against the wall watching Dean closely.  
  
“For how long?” It’s Dean’s turn for questions really. Now that Sam has what he wanted, how long will he want it for? Did it live up to the expectations? But Sam asked first, and Dean’s not about to avoid it. If he does he may never find out the answers to any of his own questions.  
  
Does he know the answer though? He lets his mouth move without his brain getting in the way, an old trick he’s learned is useful in situations like this one. “Since you turned fifteen and started arguing with me more than loving me.”  
  
It hurts to say it, to remember it, and Sam jerks once as if he was slapped before all the strength goes out of him and he sinks down on the floor and looks up at Dean. There’s no more anger there, no more defiance. Just Sam, staring up at him again and looking lighter and less burdened than he has in years. Lines that belonged on a man twenty years Sam’s senior melt from his face, and then he pushes his stupid floppy hair back and grins at Dean.  
  
“You’re so romantic post-orgasm. I never knew.”  
  
There’s silence, Dean’s head spinning a thousand ways because now it’s hitting him that this door, once opened, can never be closed again. It’s harder to understand that he was concerned that it could be. That they could do this and come back like it never happened, but there’s no fear of that now. Instead he takes a deep breath and angles for the bathroom.  
  
“Well I like to romance a lady a little after the deed is done. It’s only the gentlemanly thing to do.”  
  
Whatever it is Sam throws it misses, hits the wall, and Dean’s laughing even as he’s turning the shower on. Laughing like tomorrow coming is a good thing.  
  
  
http://www.preces-latinae.org/thesaurus/Hymni/DiesIrae.html


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